


What Ties Us Together

by barrelrider



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Also cheese, I wanted happiness, M/M, Not so sure about the ending, Parentlock, So happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:37:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barrelrider/pseuds/barrelrider





	What Ties Us Together

It has been six days since 221B has gained a new resident, but Sherlock is still unable to view him as such.

He's a human being with a beating heart and while he lacks coherent thought at present, he will attain the cognition one day. He'll even have more hair by then. He'll know how to walk by then, how to talk by then; how to do more than laugh and cry and babble and flail on his blanket.

But, that's all in the future. For now, to Sherlock, Hamish Holmes is a burden.

Sherlock knows he should feel some guilt for such thoughts, but what ties him to the child other than DNA? Even then, the tie is only halfway. The other half is somewhere in Paris where he'll never see her again (where he found her nearly a year and a half ago and asked her for her help in dismantling the web, and there was a mistake in the reward, and now he has been left with a reminder in the form of a six-month old and all Irene Adler has is a casket six feet under ground). Not that he wants to, really. He has John now, after all. Has had him for nine months. Has been home for ten. Has known casework and telly commentary and fantastic shagging and tender Sunday morning moments. He hasn't known parenthood; no, not at all.

So he watches as John plays with Hamish, and feeds Hamish, and bathes Hamish, and says things like "He's really quite cute, you know" and "I think we can do it, but it's your decision if you want to keep him or not" and "Can you pass me that stuffed chameleon? I think he wants it." He watches as John does all the things he can't seem to do, all the things he doesn't know how. He broods over it. Is jealous, perhaps.

But, why should he be? The boy is his by blood but not in any other way, shape, or form. The sooner they find an acceptable orphanage, the better.

Still, Sherlock can't help but be slightly fascinated when he sees Hamish's little toes curl, or when the boy moves his head in the direction of a passing rush of air, or how he reaches for things and examines them (often before trying to stick them in his mouth). It's intriguing to see human development up close and Hamish is a fine specimen.

He watches John gently play with the infant and notices Hamish's repetitious patterns and choice of preferences. He hums quietly and rests his fingers on his lips, perched on his leather chair. John turns to look his way with an amiable smile. "Ready to actually interact with him?" he asks.

Sherlock sees Hamish drooling on his fingers and wrinkles his nose. "You're doing an acceptable enough job," he declined.

John doesn't look surprised, though he does seem disappointed. He looks back at Hamish and gently pries the tiny fingers from the tiny mouth and boops the tiny nose with his own pointer. When Hamish laughs with glee and kicks, John smiles widely. Sherlock tilts his head.

"How strange," he comments absently, "to see the combination of genetics code themselves into a living, breathing body which will grow for years to come."

He can see John's eyeroll even when his head is down. " _Everyone_ is a combination of genetics," he points out, "not just babies."

Sherlock gestures with his pinkies pressed together at the baby in John's lap. "It's _my_ genetics," he adds. It isn't possession from fondness, of course. He's not fond of the baby. It's a simple statement of relation.

The comment doesn't make John any warmer to the notion. If anything, it serves only to put him off more. " _He's_ yours, not _it's_ yours," John corrects. "He's not an 'it'."

A scoff escapes Sherlock, who looks off and away. " _He's_ hardly mine," he mumbled. "Simply my DNA's."

John shakes his head, disappointed again. Sherlock generally dislikes disappointing John, but for some inexplicable reason, the discussion of Hamish's ownership is not one he feels like losing. He narrows his eyes as he watches John and the baby and at last he spits, "You're possessive and defencive of him enough to almost convince me that he's  _actually_ yours."

Instantly, his throat tightens and his jaw sets. Regret. It only ever occurs with John. It has since the beginning. He watches himself around the man, catches rude words before they fly from his mouth because even as far back as the cabby case he didn't want to hurt John. John is different. Not more fragile - if anything he is more fortified than the common man - but more important, the loss of which would be devastating. And so, he is careful, lest he lose John for good.

Unfortunately, that censor isn't with him then. He sees John turn to look at him, his face schooled blank and neutral, but there's pain in his eyes, and shock, and suddenly John looks older than he is, much like he did when Sherlock returned from his hiatus, and Sherlock wants to look away because seeing that face drives a stake through his heart, but he knows he's done wrong and he has to make it right and so he begins to say, "I'm sorry, John, I didn't-"

But it's too late; the damage is done. "No, you're right," John agrees. There's spite in his voice, which is quieter than it normally is when he gets upset or offended. He turns back to Hamish and teases the curls beginning to grow atop his head. "He's not mine. He's yours and The Woman's." (Sherlock sighs and hangs his head.) "Of course," John mumbles. "My mistake." Bitterness drips from his tongue.

There is silence stretching for a long while, only broken by the occasional coo of the infant. Sherlock lifts his head and regards John from under his eyelashes. "This is where you normally leave," he notes, a hint of bemusement in his voice.

John doesn't return the gaze. "I'm a bit busy taking care of _your_ son," he replies cooly. The emphasis of ownership stings more than it should have; Sherlock has to bite down a wince. Since when did a six-month old he has had for barely a week become such a sensitive topic? "After all," John continues and his words bring Sherlock back, "you haven't so much as touched him since he's been with us. One of us has to."

(And John is right; and somehow, that is what makes Sherlock feel the worst, because he knows infants die without human touch, and if John wasn't there, Hamish very well could have, and that thought is, for some unknown reason, unacceptable; and somehow, it brings back memories of childhood, of craving affection and warm glances and often being handed nothing but criticisms and comparisons, and when he received affection - pats on the head from his father, hugs and hair strokes from his mother, hair ruffles from Mycroft - he was truly  _happy._ )

Needless to say, it's enough to make him abruptly leave the room, and before he closes the door to the bedroom, he hears John's sigh, and weighs on him and makes his footsteps heavier.

-

It has only been six days since Hamish arrived at their doorstep wrapped in a blanket with a note pinned to his embroidered name, but John is already used to the disruptive sleep pattern.

After all, he lives, and works with, and loves Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes, like a bustling city, never sleeps; or, at least, he only sleeps a few nights of the week, and  never  on cases, and John is used to being woken up at four in the morning with calls from Scotland Yard. Waking up to a toddler's crying is nothing different.

It's less dangerous - except for trying to climb the stairs in little sleep - but otherwise, it's the same story: being in the company of a Holmes at the arsecrack of dawn. At least this one is less of a dick.

When he goes to attend to Hamish's wake-up that night, however, he sees he has been beaten to it by none other than Sherlock himself.

He finds Sherlock on the floor of his old room turned in-progress, most-likely-temporary nursery, sitting cross-legged, holding the toddler in his arms. Hamish is sleeping soundly once more. Sherlock seems to be nervously shifting every so often, trying to keep Hamish's head up (a little too high, John notices, but it isn't going to hurt the baby, and he doesn't have the heart to criticise Sherlock because he's _actually and finally holding his son_ ). The sight leaves him silent and soft-eyed and deep inside him John wishes it would never end, but he knows it likely will, and knows some part of him that already loves Hamish deeply will break.

Sherlock doesn't look back to greet John, but he does say in one of the softest voices John has ever heard, "You work tomorrow. You needed the sleep."

Ah. So that was it, then. No affection, no paternal guidance. Just thinking of John. (It's too early for him to decipher the lie in Sherlock's words.) At least he was touching the infant; at least it wasn't selfish. John nods, an appreciative and still slightly tetchy hum escaping him, before he turns to leave the room. Sherlock has it under control.

Until he hears him speak again. "I'm... hesitant to hold him so," comes the baritone. John turns around again and sees that Sherlock is still looking at Hamish and not at him. He walks around to Sherlock's front and sits on his knees, looking at the pair.

Sherlock still doesn't look up. John catches on and says quietly, "Nothing will happen to him if you look away for two seconds, git."

But when Sherlock looks at him at long last, his half smile fades, because Sherlock looks _terrified_. It's a silent fear read only in his eyes, but it's screaming uncertainty and alarm, and emotion is right under the surface. Even still, Sherlock sometimes doesn't know how to handle it. John doesn't hesitate to cup his cheek and brush his thumb under Sherlock's eye. The sleuth leans into the touch and closes his eyes, comforted. It makes John feel useful. It always does.

They sit in companionable silence for several moments - father holding son, partner helping partner - before Sherlock rumbles, "I may break him."

The words worry John. His brow furrows and he takes his hand back. He moves it to pat Sherlock's knee; his thumb resumes its soothing caresses. "You're not going to drop him, Sherlock," he assures. Even Sherlock isn't so incompetent with children that he would drop a baby.

He sees lips curling upwards and feels a flicker of hope, but Sherlock doesn't manage a full smile. "I appreciate the support, John, but I meant it differently," he points out. His silver hues settle on the sleeping baby. Up close, John sees that Sherlock is slowly rocking him. "Though, the potential for dropping him is there," he continues. "I could. The thought is alarming. However, I meant..."

Sherlock trails off. John lets him sit in silence to gather his thoughts. Hamish sleeps on, feeling safe and warm and at least half loved.

"I'm not supposed to be a parent," Sherlock mumbles at last. There's a sort of sorrow in his voice that John can't name. "It isn't in my programming. I don't know how to care for something-" He pauses. "-some _one_ ," he corrects himself, "so fragile." His eyes meet John's briefly and John can see the incorrect insinuation that Sherlock cannot even care for a lover. It hurts him to see the man's lack of confidence. He's doing well, doing fantastic. Why couldn't he see it himself? John watches Sherlock's Adam's apple bob as he swallows and shifts to study the floor instead of the baby.

John wishes he was better with words and advice. He aches because he can say nothing more than, "It'll come to you. It comes to every parent." He pauses and thinks about what Sherlock must be rolling over in his mind. It doesn't take much to paint the picture. (He knows Sherlock better than either of them realise.) "Just because you weren't there for the pregnancy or the birth doesn't make you any less valid of a father. You're not faulty. You've still got a tie to him; can still make it yourself. That's what family is, Sherlock." He raises his hand to move rebellious hair behind Sherlock's ear. The move catches his partner's eyes. "And, you don't have 'programming'," he reminds with a faint smile. It's one Sherlock can return at long last.

The detective sighs nonetheless. "I dislike not having innate knowledge," he laments.

"I know," John sympathises.

"I don't want to hurt him," Sherlock admits. John sees the large hand holding Hamish pulling him subtly closer.

He doesn't comment on the move. "I know," he whispers again.

Sky blue meets sea blue. "Nor do I want to hurt you," Sherlock says, "yet I seem to have failed there again."

It's John's turn to look away. The words truly did hurt him something mean. His shoulders sag and not for the first time John feels as if he loves too much.

"You are a critical part of this," Sherlock assures him after a moment, having read the silent cues, and John looks his way with uncertainty almost equal to that which Sherlock had shown him.

"If you want me to be," John says. It's as simple as that. He does as Sherlock wants; follows his lead. It isn't always the case, but this is one of them, and he won't budge on it. "It's what I want," he can't help but confess as he looks at Hamish. He strokes his head and the tiny hairs upon it. The baby yawns in response and seems to hunker down further into the soft blanket Sherlock has dutifully wrapped him in.

"It's what I want, as well," he hears Sherlock say. John looks up. "It's all I want," Sherlock murmurs when their eyes meet.

John scoots closer until their kneecaps touch. He draws Sherlock's head up and forward to meet his gaze, and they regard each other, exchanging apologies and forgiveness and affection and the mutual fear that every new pair of parents feel. It isn't decided whether or not they will keep Hamish, but they feel that fear nonetheless. If anything, they feel it more because they _haven't_ chosen.

But on the dawning of the seventh morning of Hamish's arrival, Sherlock and John simply sit together watching Hamish dream; and when they finally put Hamish back in his crib and hope that he stays asleep for a few more hours, they return to their bedroom and lay together and tangle in each other, chilly toes brushing and legs entwining and arms thrown over waists and noses in shoulders; and they let themselves dream of courage and affection, and most importantly, of love.

The strongest tie of all.

-

Five and a half months after the arduous decision to expand their family, Sherlock lifts a laughing Hamish in the air to let him play with a blue balloon attached to a large banner - home-made by Mrs Hudson's hand - that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY HAMISH, while John chuckles but silently frets about the balloon popping and frightening the toddler. His hair is coming in nicely as thick, dark curls that are more tame than his father's, and he can walk several feet without wobbling or needing a supporting hand, and Sherlock brags that he is ahead of the game in his rapidly-developing speech; and though Hamish's cognition is still just kicking off, he knows Sherlock and John as his parents: his care-takers, sources of warmth and affection and laughter and food and comfort and scolding and love.

And Sherlock and John know that he is their son.


End file.
